


All At Sea

by curds_and_wheyface



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:38:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curds_and_wheyface/pseuds/curds_and_wheyface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom spends a month after University graduation in Cambodia. There he finds a lot of rain, a dubious-looking tourist boat and a man named Chris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All At Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [townpariah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/townpariah/gifts).



"Yes, mum," Tom hummed, sitting just beneath the thatched overhang of a beach shack restaurant while rain thundered down outside, dampening the sand to a dark brown and bouncing three feet off every other available surface. "Cambodia is amazing."  
  
Even the locals were running. Having initially just donned their brightly-coloured plastic ponchos and continued about their business they had given Tom the impression that this rain would not end in another ankle-deep hike back to the hotel, but it was now clear that ponchos were not enough protection from the downpour and Tom could already see the light-brown current of thin water moving along the paving that lead to the road.  
  
According to Sohka, the seventeen year old who competently ran the Mekong Beach Shack on his Uncle's behalf, Cambodia hadn't seen October rain like this in his entire life time.  
  
Typical, Tom felt, of his particular brand of luck. Or lack thereof.  
  
"It's intermittently sunny," he assured his mum as she enquired about the weather, deciding to leave out other details such as how he'd managed to sauté his back and shoulders in the single day of sun he'd seen here so far.  
  
He'd been lucky enough to find a local woman on the beach who'd agreed to sit in the shade and rub Aloe vera onto his hardest-to-reach red patches rather than give him the massage she'd initially offered, and every day since then she'd returned to the shack, come rain or, well, _rain_ , to reapply it for two dollars and a can of Coke Light.  
  
She'd just left him when the rain had begun, prompting him to hastily throw on his t-shirt and probably ruin all of her hard work. He'd tried to convey the message that he wouldn't be along tomorrow - "boat trip," he'd said, wiggling his hand in front of her to represent the ocean - but he wasn't sure she'd understood, given that she'd only nodded and repeated "Okay sir, tomorrow sir," as she went on her way.  
  
With no sign of a lull in the downfall Tom settled back into the curved seat, stretching his legs until his toes poked out into the warm rain.  
  
"You bring me bad luck," Sohka tutted, leaning over Tom's shoulder to plant another ice tea in his reach, and Tom could only shrug apologetically.  
  
-  
  
He had arrived first in Phnom Penh where the constant buzz of people and traffic had overwhelmed and overjoyed him in equal measure. He'd visited the National Museum of Cambodia, spent an sombre morning at the Choeung Ek memorial, visited the temple on the hill and walked along the seafront as far as he confidently could without fearing getting lost.  
  
He'd been dragged beneath a shelter by two local girls during a particularly vicious bout of rain, both of whom had giggled and talked circles around him, touching his wet curls and whispering together before inviting him to eat with them at a plastic table supplied by one of the street vendors. He'd eaten until he was full, despite not really understanding their explanations of the food, leaning back to press a hand to his bloated stomach with a happy moan that made them giggle all the more.  
  
The next morning, in yet more rain, he'd dragged his suitcase to the end of the road to wait for his coach to Sihanoukville where he'd hoped to see a bit more sun. Arriving there in a light shower of rain he'd wandered to the nearest beach anyway, where he'd met Sohka for the first time and spent his first afternoon at the Mekong Beach Shack - named, he'd been advised, after the catfish rather than the river - and had found himself returning there most days despite his usual propensity for trying new things.  
  
His hotel in Sihanoukville was nice enough, though when he'd chosen a poolside room he hadn't counted on the early afternoon noise of children dive-bombing into the water or the early evening noise of other holiday-goers drinking and loudly guffawing often until past midnight.  
  
There was also a gecko in his room that Tom had initially thought dead until it leapt at the lit-up screen of his laptop one night when he was emailing his sister. His ensuing scream had, mortifyingly, roused the attention of his Dutch neighbour who after laughing at him for a solid five minutes had assured him that the creature was more afraid of him than he was of it.  
  
It disappeared for the rest of the night, leading Tom to believe that it had gone for good, until he came back from the beach the following day to find it back in its corner behind the air conditioning unit. It had remained there ever since. He'd taken to talking to it; hello, goodnight, excuse my nakedness - that sort of thing. He'd switched off his anti-mosquito plug-in in case it was getting hungry.  
  
It was clear that he needed to venture out and make a human friend.  
  
-  
  
Once the rain had tapered off Tom ventured out, brolly in hand, to one of the bars frequented not only by locals but also by backpackers from across the globe. Cheap and cheerful, the sign boasted, with local beer on draft for only fifty cents. Or 2000 Cambodian Riel since the currency, it turned out, was interchangeable providing you could work out what was what.  
  
Unfortunately for Tom he didn't like beer and the ciders started at two dollars fifty. Cocktails, however, were two for one until 10pm.  
  
Hopping onto a seat near the bar and ordering a 'Wasted Whale' simply for its name, he observed the nearby pool table while he waited. Four British boys surrounded it, deep in the competition of a game and loudly bantering with strong Northern accents - Manchester, Tom suspected, although he'd never been. In fact, Tom had never spent time socially with boys like that; the rough and tumble kind with their unabashed oafishness and cheeky charm - which, he told himself, was what kept him perched at the bar instead of approaching the first British people he's seen all day.  
  
He was content to watch them, he decided. One of them in particular kept drawing Tom's eye, though more for his horrendously mismatched floral hat and Hawaiian shirt combination than any positive attraction, and before long their antics had distracted him through the consumption of his first sickly-sweet cocktail. He sucked at his straw, startled by the obnoxious gurgling noise the empty glass emitted, to find the bartender already standing before him asking what his next one would be.  
  
"Oh, um," Tom glanced quickly down the list to find anything that sounded a bit less saccharine. "A, hmm, I'll take a 'Urine Sample', please."  
  
It was an odd sentence to say out loud, though it didn't faze the bartender at all, and it was just as he'd finished forming the words that Tom glanced over to his right and saw the tall blonde staring at him from across the bar.  
  
He was gorgeous to an intimidating degree; bright, cat-like eyes and long hair, damp from the rain and tied back out of his face. His skin was smoothly tanned like a seasoned sun-dweller rather than the blotched, patchwork-quilt red sported by Tom and most of the other travellers in the bar, and his intense gaze didn't break even as he was caught staring. He smiled, in fact, friendly and openly interested, and Tom felt his face instantly heat up at the blatant attention, a familiar tingling at the tips of his ears as they flushed an embarrassingly deep pink.  
  
It was Tom who looked away, down at his hands where they were resting on the bar. He noticed for the first time the damp patch where his previous cocktail had sat sweating condensation right next to the dry, unused beer mat he'd been given.  
  
The bartender placed the next one right in the wet spot, almost as if he was too concerned about upsetting Tom to place it on the mat. It was a trait that Tom had found consistent in the overly-affable people of Sihanoukville.  
  
Reaching for a napkin to wipe the bar forced Tom's eyes in the direction of the blonde man again and, although he only allowed himself a quick glance, it was clear that he was still being observed. It didn't strike Tom until his cheeks hollowed around the first sip of his new cocktail that he perhaps should've reconsidered his decision to use a straw under such intense scrutiny.

Nervous, he swivelled the chair slightly towards the pool table, pointing his back at the gorgeous man, berating himself even as he did it. _Self-preservation_ he told himself, no way was a man like that truly interested in him, so better to nip it in the bud. Still, as the minutes passed and Tom felt as though he could still feel the man's watchful gaze, he began to dare himself to glance back over his shoulder. What harm could possibly come of entertaining the notion?  
  
Maybe after another cocktail.  
  
Thirty minutes later, just when Tom was really beginning to hate himself and his inability to approach attractive men, he asked for his bill and chanced a look over to find the space empty.  
  
He let out a breath, surprised by the intensity of his disappointment. Even as he stepped out onto the still-damp pavement and began his brisk walk back to the hotel he kept his eyes peeled for a tall blonde, imagining various scenarios in which a more confident Tom might not have let the chance slip away.  
  
-

The next morning brought more rain, a downpour so violent that it left the streets inches deep in cloudy, sand-coloured water, and Tom wondered whether or not his boat trip would be cancelled. Just on time - of course - an off-blue van pulled up and the driver beckoned him in with a perfunctory check of his damp ticket.  
  
He climbed inside to join the three girls already seated and briefly nodded his hello, noticing as he settled that the floor of the vehicle was exposed, rusted beneath his feet, and hoping that wasn't indicative of the kind of boat he'd be on.  
  
It was.  
  
At the end of the pier a tall, white boat swayed in the wavy water, a sign up high declaring it 'The Party Boat', but that one was vacant and dark inside. Just before it, swaying with much more force, was a small turquoise boat with patches of bare wood and nothing but tarpaulin protecting the inside from the torrents of rain. Urged by the boat guide, Tom removed his squeaky flip-flops and leapt onto the deck, slipping on the sodden wood as he landed. Managing to right himself using one of the support pillars he looked around the boat with not a small amount of worry.  
  
Up front there was a narrow pilot's house which was largely obscured by two thin sliding doors. Through the gap Tom could see the wheel of the boat, a waist-height bench and not much else, though two members of the crew were loading boxes inside the small space. To the back was a ladder to a trap door, probably leading to the roof of the boat. A centre table occupied most of the space, with bench seats either side, and Tom carefully moved around to take a seat at the top end.  
  
Ten others followed behind him; the three girls from the van who he now understood to be German, a bohemian-looking French couple, two older New Zealanders who seemed as sceptical as Tom felt, and lastly three other Brits - a harassed looking man and two women.  
  
The vessel smelled like salt and damp wood, bobbing violently in the water while everybody got themselves seated around the table. The boat guide handed them each a bottle of water and a plastic wrapped baguette for breakfast before moving on to call orders to the rest of the crew. A dozen life-jackets hung on the back of the benches and with little inspection Tom came to the conclusion that they were tied so tightly everybody aboard would probably drown before successfully untying one.  
  
Five minutes later, with everyone settled and a few tucking into their bread, Tom wondered if he was the only one curious about what was keeping them. If the water was too choppy then surely they'd allow everyone off and refund their money rather than try to entertain them for seven hours whilst still anchored to the pier?  
  
Before he could enquire as to the exact time of their departure the boat guide, who was yet to introduce himself, stuck his head out between two sheets of tarpaulin and began to shout.  
  
"Chris!" he motioned vigorously, holding up a sheet to make a gap, and after a short breath somebody else jumped onboard.  
  
Tom did a double take, dropping his baguette which thudded solidly against the table. Everybody turned to look, including the new addition once he'd shoved his wet hair out of his face. It was the man from the bar. Tom felt himself blush. Again.  
  
"Hi," the man - _Chris_ \- smiled, presumably to everyone though he only looked at Tom.  
  
Shortly after that the boat guide, the other staff and Chris all went to huddle at the front of the boat for several minutes - probably looking out at the weather and deciding that fifteen dollars per tourist wasn't worth killing all of them by going ahead with the trip - and Tom sat wondering what else the day was likely to throw at him.  
  
In the end they apparently decided it _was_ worth it to risk everyone's lives and the boat fired up with a chug-chugging engine that powered them away from the pier with a surprising speed.  
  
Surprisingly slow, that is.  
  
Chris was the only member of staff that didn't reappear in the minutes following their departure and a little lean further across the table gave Tom enough of a view through the gap in the doors to spot him at the wheel.  
  
They made slow progress, the rain drawing off enough as they gained distance from shore that the tour guide began to roll up the tarpaulin. Tom wished he hadn't, further dubious of his safety once he could see just how much they were rocking on the fierce water.  
  
Within ten minutes one of the German girls was looking particularly green, dangling her head over the side and retching miserably, and the British threesome who'd sat opposite him were in the midst of an increasingly loud spat. The man eventually threw his arms up in the air and moved to stand but he didn't get far, being lurched into the nearest pillar by a particularly harsh rock of the boat.  
  
"Sit down!" the girl beside him snapped, pulling on the strap of his backpack until he tipped backwards onto the seat. The wood emitted a worryingly loud creak and he glared over his shoulder at her before throwing Tom an embarrassed glance.  
  
Tom pressed his lips together and, after just a moment's thought, slipped out from his own bench seat and moved away from the quarrelling threesome, deciding to hover up near the front of the boat where he had a decent view of not only the emerging islands up ahead but also of Chris. He was delightful to look at, even just standing behind the wheel with a loose, casual posture; feet shoulder-width apart and back slouched forwards just-slightly, probably to accommodate his height in the small space.  
  
"You alright, mate?" Chris said, an Australian accent immediately apparent, and for a moment Tom thought he was talking to him.  
  
He inched towards the space, hesitant steps on the unsteady boat, and opened his mouth to answer just as the boat's guide appeared from behind Chris and launched himself towards the side to regurgitate his breakfast. Averting his eyes, Tom found his gaze back on Chris who was managing to both laugh and look disgusted at the same time.  
  
He let his eyes slip over in Tom's direction, a momentary eye contact that managed to zing across Tom's senses with as much force as the intense gazing from the night before. "I'll be honest," he said, looking back out at the water, "today's not a good day for this."  
  
"No?" Tom managed to reply with a steady voice, pushing the edge of his foot against the wood to secure his balance.  
  
Chris shrugged. "We'll be out from under this rain in a few minutes but it's going to be choppy most of the day and the water's probably too cloudy for snorkelling."  
  
"Oh," Tom said, genuinely disappointed. "I was looking forward to the snorkelling."  
  
Silence hung between them for a minute or so, which gave enough time for Tom to notice how deceiving Chris' casual posture was, the muscles of his arms straining as he fought to keep the boat moving forwards instead of being pulled in the direction of the current. Momentarily Tom pondered reaching out to touch the straining bicep nearest to him, and he might have if that boat hadn't chosen that moment to lurch again, tipping him to stumble backwards towards the side of the boat.  
  
Chris's hand shot out and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, undoubtedly saving him from taking an impromptu swim. It wasn't Tom's finest moment, one leg lifted up in the air and arms wind-milling as he tried to right himself. Chris, for his part, looked mildly alarmed and Tom couldn't tell if that was because of his near-fall or because of his subsequent uncoordinated display.  
  
"Do you want to sit in here?" Chris raised his brows, tugging Tom further inside and motioning behind him to the flat surface that contained another box full of food for lunch. "S'probably safer."  
  
So Tom found himself settling there to watch the water, or Chris, or the surprisingly vast islands up ahead, and as the wind whipped around them with the smell of damp wood and rock-solid baguettes, he felt strangely good. And if Chris' hip knocked his knee a little every time the boat rocked them backwards, well, that was okay too.  
  
Nothing, he decided, not the threat of another storm, the cloudy water or the chorus of vomiting from various parts of the boat, would ruin his day.  
  
-  
  
"Shit," Chris muttered from beside him where they were huddled with everybody else, crowded tightly beneath a small canopy on the second island. A rope's distance from shore, secured only by the old, rusted anchor, their boat rocked violently back and forth, vulnerable under the beating rain and heavy waves and, Tom wasn't sure but, it was possibly taking on water. He was too afraid to ask.  
  
They had stopped some fifty metres from the first island rather than _actually stopping on it_ , and the boat guide - named Vichet, Chris had told him once Tom had thought to introduce himself - had divvied out sets of snorkels and masks and effectively evicted almost everybody from the boat into the water.  
  
"Beware sea urchin! Swim!" He'd said, pointing to a spot some metres behind them.  
  
Tom had been hovering beside the precarious looking ladder when Chris had appeared beside him wearing dark sunglasses that made him look like some kind of sexy sea-cop. Tom forced his eyes back down to the water. "Ah, don't look so worried," Chris had said casually. "There isn't much in there that'll kill you."  
  
Not feeling particularly encouraged by the assertion,  Tom had followed the others in, fighting with his mask and choking around a mouthful of salty water before finally finding his feet - so to speak.  
  
It hadn't been a total loss. Through the clouds Tom had been able to spot shoals of small black fish flurrying this way and that between the corals, along with several striped Sergeant Major fish bobbing along on their own. Nobody had stepped on a sea urchin and the rolling thunder to their far left didn't seem to be creeping any nearer. It had seemed to be going alright.  
  
It was on the approach to their second island that the rain had begun again, followed by the thunder closing in, and by the time they reached Bamboo Island there wasn't much to do other than throw themselves off the undulating boat with their possessions above their heads and wade towards the dryer sand up ahead. Tom and the other passengers had watched from under the canopy as Chris, Vichet and the others dragged the boat in as far as possible using the rope of the anchor, and then they'd joined the pack beneath the small cover, assuring everybody that they'd just need to wait out the 'small storm'.  
  
That had been half an hour ago.  
  
Chris had fitted himself in beside Tom despite the lack of real room and the resulting drip that kept landing on his shoulder, and Tom felt warmed by the gesture even as the wind picked up again almost upturning their canopy.  
  
"I told you it wasn't a great day," Chris said once it righted itself, and Tom couldn't help but laugh in spite of their situation. Watching a milky-white pool of rain and lotion gather in the crook of his elbow he was forced to concede that Chris was probably right, and also that he may have wasted a large portion of his expensive sun-block.

-

The rain did clear, eventually, and the snorkels were redistributed while Vichet and Chris struggled to light a fire with damp wood in order to cook the barracuda that was to be lunch. Tom busied himself collecting the biggest gastropod shells he could find in the shallows, disappointed when his favourite one sprouted an angry hermit crab and waddled back into the water once he'd brought it to shore. He debated following it, just to watch it for a while, but then Chris appeared behind him to announce that lunch was ready.  
  
Everybody sat in a big circle and ate the fish and boiled rice, even the French girl who'd made a fuss about eating food that wasn't cooked in a proper kitchen, and Vichet told funny stories with such odd English that Tom found them all the more funny whilst the three German girls seemed a bit lost. Tom noticed somewhere between the barracuda and the dessert of under-ripe bananas that he'd left his watch on whilst snorkelling and the face had clouded over, so he sat rubbing it sadly while Vichet explained that they wouldn't be risking the third island but would instead spent more time on Bamboo Island to ensure everybody got their money's worth.  
  
When the circle broke up again to wander the island Chris stayed seated in the sand feeding his leftovers to a pair of large, grey-speckled dogs. He wore a small smile, which only grew larger as the dogs followed his command to stop fighting over the scraps, and Tom watched him unabashedly with a sort of exhilaration bubbling away in his stomach. Once the food was gone and the dogs lost interest Chris looked up and caught him staring, and this time neither of them looked away.  
  
Chris patted the sand beside him. "Why don't you let your food go down?"  
  
"Alright," Tom nodded, taking up the spot offered to him. The sand was pebbly and rough under the damp seat of his cargo shorts and there were still ominous clouds in the distance, but every once in a while Tom felt the brush of Chris' arm against his own as they talked and his desire to explore the island diminished significantly.  
  
"How did you end up here?" he asked once they'd exhausted talking about his life back in England.  
  
Chris looked at him sidelong. "Sailing a rotting tour boat?"  
  
"Here in Cambodia."  
  
"Ah," Chris nodded. "Well, I suppose I just wanted to see how far from home I could get with my savings once I was made redundant from my last job. Not too far, it turns out." He offered a wry smile, pleasant in that it tugged his mouth in such a way that long dimples appeared at either end.  
  
Tom wanted to kiss him. Instead, he said, "Was that on a boat too?"  
  
"Yep," Chris nodded again. "Fishing boat. Little bit fancier than that thing." He motioned to the boat offshore, which looked bigger from a distance than it had felt when they were actually on it, and his negative comment was rendered false by his fond expression.  
  
"How long ago was that?" Tom pressed, curious as to how long Chris had been away from home. "That you were made redundant."  
  
"About nine months now," Chris bit his lip, squinting out to see. "I did some travelling around before I found myself here, the usual travellers haunts, you know, and then one day I decided to do this whole boat tour thing with an American girl I'd met here and before we could even visit a single island we sailed right into the path of a storm."  
  
Tom motioned for him to continue, trying not to be irrationally disappointed or jealous at the mention of the girl. He was fairly sure that he hadn't misread Chris' intentions the night before.  
  
"The guy sailing us could've got us home alright, I reckon, but he was sick as a dog that day and the rest of the crew got in a bit of a panic. They were shouting at each other in the local language so none of the tourists could understand them but it was pretty clear to me that none of them knew how to sail the damned thing."  
  
"So you saved everyone," Tom felt his face morphing with a wide grin. "You big hero."  
  
Chris nudged him, looking bashfully down at the sand. "Vichet followed me around for days trying to hire me. All below-board, of course, until I could get a working visa sorted. It's a pretty good gig; I get loads of sun, loads of free time to myself and when the boys insult me it's usually in Khmer so I can't understand them anyway."  
  
His face broke into a big smile then, his shoulders shaking with almost silent laughter, and despite Tom finding the happiness infectious he couldn't help but ask, "And what happened to your American friend?"  
  
"Ah, she went home," Chris said, seeming surprised by the question. "There wasn't anything-. I mean, we weren't-" He huffed out a neat little laugh. "She was just a friend."  
  
"Okay," Tom said, fighting off a smile.  
  
Chris levelled him with a look that he struggled to read; his brows lowered with an expression that hung somewhere between serious and confused with maybe a touch of discomfort for good measure. "Last night, I thought I'd offended you when you turned your back to me. Some straight guys are weird about, you know, being hit on."  
  
Tom drew his bottom lip between his teeth and shrugged. "I'm not straight, I'm just...shy."  
  
Chris nodded, like he'd already worked that out for himself during the course of the morning, and a silence settled over them as the waves burst gently up on the sand. The romance of the moment was only broken by the two British girls playing a soundly unimpressive game of volleyball which they peppered with the occasional bellowed curse.  
  
-  
  
They explored the beach together for a brief while, Chris kicking branches and tree-spines aside to show Tom the shells hiding underneath, but Tom deemed them all to be too broken or too brown or _too small_ for collecting and eventually, with a roll of his eyes, Chris stopped bothering, leaving Tom to observe the bird sounds from high above them in the trees, or the small black frog he spotted struggling to get up an embankment.  
  
Eventually Vichet's voice rang out calling Chris to help reload the boat and they headed back. Tom offered to help but Chris insisted that he make sure all of his own things were packed up instead. He gathered his shells into the mesh side-pocket of his backpack and checked that his camera and phone were neatly tucked away inside before rolling up his wet towel and heading back to the boat.  
  
Chris helped him on with a strong hand and once back inside Tom settled himself where he'd been before, just behind Chris at the wheel. It was peacefully quiet between them, and halfway back to shore when the sun came out he excused himself to go and lie flat on the roof, laying his towel out beside him to dry, and the now-gentle rocking of the boat lulled him into a peaceful sort of half-sleep wherein he dreamed about being saved from a sinking boat by a heroic figure who looked just like Chris.  
  
-  
  
Getting off the boat was a lot easier than getting on it, in part due to the steadier waves but also because the boat was tied more securely to the pier. Tom hovered for a while to see if Chris might want to say goodbye but he seemed busy unloading the boat and eventually Tom forced himself to wander back up to the van.  
  
It was likely that he'd see Chris around; a fact which comforted Tom only slightly as he made to step into the van, wondering if he'd once again missed out on an opportunity.  
  
"Tom?"

He span on his heel, one foot still resting on the step of the van, and the motion had the odd effect  of presenting his crotch at Chris, who apparently couldn't help but accept the invitation just for a second. Then his eyes flashed back up to Tom's face.

"How do you fancy maybe grabbing some food in an hour or two?"

Tom felt like he'd been waiting all day, or his whole life maybe, for Chris to ask him something like that but he was sticky with sweat and old lotion, not to mention tired from the trip, and the thought of having to shower and rush around without even time for a sleep seemed nightmarish.

He looked at his watch, remembering belatedly that it wasn't working, but guessed the time to be about five. "How about eight?"

Chris grinned. "Tired?"  
  
Tom nodded apologetically, although, really, he was on holiday and felt well within his rights to nap in the late afternoon. Besides which, the brochure had promised that they'd be home by four.

He was going to say as much but Chris continued, "Okay, where shall we meet then? Where do you usually go?"  
  
Tom considered the question. He didn't really go anywhere 'usually' except for the Mekong shack in the daytime. His evenings, so far, had been spent trying out the array of restaurants along the top road - with varying results - and trying not to question how sad he must look eating alone if even the men who had clearly paid for their companions were tossing him pitying looks.

"Well, the shack I usually go to in the day has a nice menu but I haven't fancied walking along the beach on my own at night. It's on the top end of the beach. Um, Mekong?"

That prompted another grin from Chris. "I know it. How about we meet on the bottom of the road and walk along together?"  
  
"Sounds great," Tom said, trying for casual, and then he was being prompted to climb into the van and the door was shut sharply between them. Chris waved as the van reversed, looking a bit daft when it took longer than he'd probably expected, and then he disappeared from Tom's view.  
  
-  
  
There were no kids in the pool and the gecko was still in its corner, so Tom showered and then lay down naked under the air conditioner to dry and sleep simultaneously. His dream of the hero on the boat didn't return to him and when Tom eventually woke he was chilly and immersed in darkness.  
  
His phone told him that it was quarter to eight.  
  
Kicking himself for forgetting to set an alarm he rushed to get ready, thankful that he'd had the foresight to shower before sleeping, and managed to dash out of his room looking _fairly_ decent by five past. He'd usually walk but he hopped in a tuk-tuk to save time and was only ten minutes late by the time he got to the beach-end of the road.  
  
Chris looked utterly relieved to see him. "Fashionably late?" he said, not seeming upset at all.  
  
"No, no," Tom rubbed at his neck, embarrassed, hating the thought of ever giving anybody the wrong impression. "I'm never purposefully late for things, I overslept. Sorry."  
  
"That's alright," Chris smiled softly, managing to look like a golden retriever. "I'm a big guy, I wasn't too scared out here on my own."  
  
They headed towards the sand and walked towards Mekong at a leisurely pace, politely shaking their heads as they were invited into each shack they passed along the way. A few of the locals greeted Chris with friendly nods or waves, including one boy with a long stick and a carton of what looked like petroleum. A few metres behind him a fire was burning and he gestured for Chris to join him.  
  
"No," Chris said loudly, laughing around the determination in his answer. "Never again. Ever."  
  
The boy look disappointed as he headed back to his friends, and Tom kept looking over his shoulder at the bonfire as Chris lead him away until finally Chris gave in and huffed out a self-deprecating laugh. "He does fire dancing, you know, with the stick? He makes it look easy so I told him I could do it and I set my shorts on fire."  
  
Tom had to press his lips together into a thin line to avoid outright laughing in Chris' face, and Chris nudged him with his elbow again as he had done on Bamboo Beach. "It's not funny," he insisted, despite laughing himself.  
  
Mekong appeared just up ahead, lit by white paper lanterns, well-spaced candles and the strip-lighting from behind the bar, and Chris' warm hand settled at the small of Tom's back as they turned to head inside.  
  
"Hello Tom," Sohka said cheerily before spotting Chris behind him. His expression changed with almost comical speed and he clucked his tongue. "Why did you bring this man to my shack?"  
  
Glancing over questioningly Tom saw Chris break out into a grin. "Hi Sohka," he said. "Nice to see you too."  
  
In response Sohka only huffed and marched away into the kitchen leaving Tom to throw a curious look at his companion, but Sohka immediately returned with a draft beer for Chris which he placed on Tom's usual table. He took a drink order from Tom before disappearing into the kitchen, still throwing sidelong glances at Chris.  
  
"He doesn't like me much," Chris shrugged, still grinning. "I wind him up a bit."  
  
'A bit', it turned out, was an understatement, but Sohka gave as good as he got, having an answer for all of Chris' jibes, and eventually Tom began to see the cracks in Sohka's facade. It was something of a game, it seemed, to get the last word, and Tom found himself inordinately pleased that the winner was usually Sohka.  Several times Chris only threw his head back in a laugh rather than trying to respond and Sohka would only tut at him as though he was disappointed.  
  
As Tom had suspected, the food was great. Tom ate a decent portion of the massive Khmer curry he ordered and Chris put away an entire pizza along with a side plate of fries. Afterwards, when Sohka brought out more beer for Chris and a small bottle of cider for Tom, Chris sank deep into his cushioned chair and let out a long, pleased sigh. With his eyes closed and his knees spread wide he was the picture of contentment, and effortlessly sexy. Tom felt his arousal spike as he stared.  
  
It had occurred to him early on that he might be invited home with Chris, and he had suspected all along that his answer would probably be yes, but it only truly hit him as he let his eyes trail over Chris now that it was all actually happening. Dry mouthed, he took a sip of his drink, shuffling in his chair in the hopes of stemming his growing arousal, and Chris blinked one eye open to look at him.  
  
"You alright?" he asked, lifting a hand to touch his fingers to Tom's bare knee, and Tom could only nod. "Good," Chris smiled, and then he settled back to look out at the dark beach without removing his hand.  
  
Sohka gave them a curious look when he collected their empties but he didn't say anything, and neither did Chris, so Tom didn't either, and some minutes later when Sohka asked whether Chris wanted another beer the man shook his head, finally dislodging his hand from Tom's knee and leaving a warm spot behind.  
  
"I'm good for beer," Chris said, sitting up to stretch his arms over his head. "You want another, Tom?"  
  
And that was it, Tom knew. He had been unequivocally invited to leave the shack in Chris' company and he was going to go. Sohka brought them their bill and they split it, despite Chris' complaints that he'd invited Tom out and therefore should be paying. Sohka aimed to solve their disagreement by suggesting they split the bill but Chris pay the tip - "very big tip, I think" he'd said - and with another amused laugh Chris agreed.  
  
They walked back to the road in a comfortable quiet, once again politely declining invitations into other shacks and shaking their heads at enthusiastic tuk-tuk drivers, and before Tom knew it they were back at the top of the road where they'd started.  
  
"So," Chris said, coming to a stop.  
  
Tom slipped his hands into his pockets and smiled. "So."  
  
With a chuckle Chris looked down at his shoes, shaking his head. "Look," he said, stepping closer. "My place isn't far. I don't mind if you don't want to, but you could come back for a while."  
  
The air was balmy and slightly uncomfortable against Tom's skin, a far cry from the unashamedly grey British weather he was used to, but the night seemed filled with promise. He only needed to take the leap.  
  
"Okay," he breathed, so quietly that he was worried it got lost in the breeze but then Chris was smiling gently and pulling him along.  
  
Within five minutes they were inside a spacious wooden bungalow that overlooked the water, open plan aside from the bathroom and kitchen, and Chris was crouching down beside the small fridge.  
  
"I don't have any cider," he said apologetically, so Tom took the soft drink he was offered and Chris gulped down most of a cold bottle of water.  
  
Once the refridgerator was closed again the room fell into silence, the air heavy with heat and something else, a tension between them, and Tom felt a nervous, breathy laugh threatening to bubble out of his throat. He didn't even get to pop the lid on his can before Chris was stepping into his space and removing it from his hands. The intensity of their eye contact was such that Tom curled his toes within his shoes, excitement buzzing around his chest, and then Chris was holding onto the back of his head and pulling him in.  
  
Their lips met in a good, solid kiss; an entire day's build-up pouring out into each other's mouths, hot and damp and forceful, and Tom's breath hitched in his throat as he was pressed back against the nearest wall. Chris palmed his way up under Tom's shirt with one hand and pressed a muscular thigh between Tom's legs, jostling Tom's hardening erection just right. His other hand he sneaked around behind to grasp at Tom's arse, using the leverage to encourage Tom's hips to meet his own in a slow, rolling friction.  
  
Tom scrunched the shoulders of Chris' t-shirt between shaking fingers, suspecting that he might sob out loud if Chris wasn't so skilfully occupying his mouth. This was the most action he'd had in a while, and even if Chris changed his mind now and kicked Tom out this would probably serve as enough wank fodder to last him until at least his next holiday.  
  
That didn't happen, though, Chris seemingly too content to plunder Tom's mouth, rocking against him until they were both exhibiting laboured breath and obvious erections.  
  
When Chris finally released Tom's mouth only to nuzzle his way down past Tom's collar, licking and sucking at the sensitive, pale skin of his neck, Tom let his head fall back against the wall and allowed himself to laugh. His lips tingled from the force of their kisses and he felt a bit manic with pleasure and impatience. Chris lifted his mouth away from where he'd been sucking marks onto Tom's throat.  
  
"What?" He said, a picture of confusion and debauchery with his mouth dark pink and wet and turned down at the corners.  
  
Tom lifted his thumb to smooth the frown lines that had appeared on Chris' forehead and pitched forwards to nip at his bottom lip, taking an uncharitable pleasure from Chris' surprised huff.  
  
"Nothing," he murmured. "It's just that we're less than three feet from your bed and you're groping me up against a wall."  
  
"Right..." Chris nodded, frown reappearing momentarily, and then he was dipping his knees to grab Tom beneath the thighs. It was an awkward shuffle, but it was only a few steps for Chris and then he was lowering Tom to sit at the edge of his soft mattress, remaining on his feet to tug his own shirt over his head.  
  
He was a glorious sight, even in the dim glow, and when Tom slipped his hands up the back of Chris' thighs to tug him forwards Chris went without complaint. He fastened his mouth to the toned V of muscle leading down beneath Chris' waistline, breathing deep the hot scent of his sweat mixed with the sharp, lingering smell of inexpensive soap.  
  
Chris thrust his hips forward, threading rough fingers into the front of Tom's curls and nimbly unfastening his belt and zipper with the other hand. It was clear what he wanted and Tom was more than happy to give it to him, eager to feel Chris' cock in his hands and on his tongue.  
  
Without the help of the belt around his hips Chris' shorts fell easily to the floor and he kicked them off leaving only tight, white boxer briefs behind that left little to the imagine with regards to his impressive length. There was already a damp spot forming where the wet, pink head of Chris' cock was tenting the material and Tom moved to press his mouth there.  
  
"Fuck, go on, do it," Chris breathed, tipping his head back and tugging Tom closer unapologetically by the hair. He was turning out to be a lot more commanding in bed than he'd been throughout the day and a shiver ran the length of Tom's spine at the thought of being manhandled by this man, owned and enjoyed as he saw fit.  
  
Under Chris' guidance Tom lapped at the increasingly damp patch, humming at the taste and the feel of Chris rocking gently against his mouth, and within less than a minute the material was wet through and transparent and Chris was tugging Tom's mouth away while he pulled them down and off. He held Tom's gaze as he did it, corners of his mouth twitching into the promise of a smile, and then he was palming his own thick cock and nudging it slowly against Tom's rosy lips.  
  
"Your mouth is, _fuck_ -" he shook at the first swirl of Tom's tongue around the head, groaning low in his throat, "-criminal. Jesus. Looks made for taking a fat cock."  
  
His words sent a wicked thrill through Tom's frame and had him taking Chris' cock deep with determination, a wet suction that had Chris humming and hissing in turn. He was too big to take completely, leaving Tom drooling down his own chin and the base of Chris' dick, and Tom used the wetness to his advantage; using his hand where he couldn't reach with his mouth until Chris was unable to stop himself from shoving his hips forward.  
  
 The head of his cock nudged at the opening of Tom's throat, just enough that Tom's answering moan came out garbled and broken. He pulled away a little, gasping for breath and glanced up through his lashes to find Chris gritting his teeth.  
  
"Shit," Chris gasped, sucking in a deep breath and stepping back to palm at himself again. Tom couldn't help but smile, pleased with his work, and then Chris was reaching down to lift Tom's arms and tug his shirt over his head, shoving him to lean back on his hands while his hips were unceremoniously lifted and he was liberated of his cargo shorts.  
  
Tom was sure he looked quite debauched, his dick straining against the waistband of his underwear, pink head already poking out at the top, and Chris seemed to agree, groaning low and tugging Tom into a long, deep kiss.  
  
"You're gorgeous," he breathed, licking out once more at Tom's slightly parted lips before moving to strip his underwear down his legs. "I want to touch you everywhere."  
  
Tom whimpered. "You can," he nodded, "I want you to," and Chris grinned and pressed him backwards to lie flat.

The sheets caught against his sunburn and at his displeased hiss Chris tugged him forwards again and assess the damage. It wasn't as bad as it had been, not even close, but pressure still made the burn ache across his skin like a fresh, hot bruise and Tom squirmed when Chris reached down to touch. He stopped, bending almost double to lick open-mouthed kisses to the juncture of Tom's neck and shoulder in an apology.  
  
"On your front then," he whispered against damp skin, and then he was manhandling Tom around until his cheek was pressed to the bed, encouraging him with rough hands to lift his hips. Tom did as he was ordered, feeling frantic and shaky with excitement, and then Chris was spreading his legs with demanding hands.  
  
Calloused thumbs massaged down from his lower back to his arse and then Tom felt himself being spread wide open for Chris' eyes. He whimpered, having seen this sort of thing in porn but never experiencing it himself.  
  
Chris groaned, lowering himself, and Tom yelped as the meaty underside of his buttock was soundly bitten.  
  
"God," Chris breathed against his skin. "Anyone ever had their mouth on you here?" He punctuated the question by nudging a dry thumb against Tom's hole and Tom sobbed a little, shaking his head.  
  
"No," he breathed, feeling unsure and desperate for it all at once, "nobody."  
  
"I'm going to," Chris growled out in promise. "Okay? I'm going to lick you open for my cock."  
  
Squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his forehead against the pillow Tom nodded, feeling the pull of his cheeks being spread further, and then there was nothing except Chris' hot breath and his even hotter tongue. It was like nothing Tom had ever felt; odd and wet but _good_ , so overwhelmingly good, and the only thing that stopped him from rocking backwards was Chris' tight hold on his hips.  
  
"Feel good?" Chris hummed out a laugh, another warm gust of breath, and then his tongue was licking across Tom's fluttering hole again, up and down and in a tight swirl around the sensitive skin, and Tom's fingers were near to tearing the sheets with how hard he was gripping the material. Then, just when he thought it couldn't get any better, Chris began to prod his stiffened tongue inside.  
  
"Nnggh," Tom groaned, a guttural, inhuman sound, and in answer Chris pressed so deep with his thick tongue that Tom swore he could feel the other man's teeth against his flesh. Shuddering and sweating with his need to come he reached down between his legs only for his hand to be swatted away.  
  
"Jesus," he complained into the pillow, damp from his open-mouthed panting. "Chris, please."  
  
He got another bite for his trouble, slightly more gentle this time, and then Chris pulled his mouth away completely and rubbed his thumb there instead. "No," he whispered. "Not yet, okay? Don't come yet."  
  
"You're going to have to stop-" he broke off, forcing himself not to sob again as Chris laid another wet kiss at his hole. " _Chris_."  
  
And then Chris was up on his knees, leaning over Tom to rifle in his bedside drawer, and Tom turned his face to watch as he grabbed a few condom packets and a small bottle of lube. Then, without any warning except the quiet 'snick' of the bottle cap, Chris was piercing Tom with two fingers.  
  
He tried to surge forwards away from the pressure but Chris held him steady, making soothing noises whilst twisting and crooking his fingers. "That's it," he murmured, leaning close again to nip at the protruding knobs at the base of Tom's spine and driving his fingers deep inside. "So good."  
  
By the time he added a third finger Tom was actively rocking back against the intrusion, gasping and keening, ready to beg for Chris to just do it already. And then, as if sensing his impatience, Chris was tearing open a condom packet with his teeth and slipping his fingers free.  
  
He hissed approvingly as he sank into Tom's heat, gripping his hips tight enough to bruise and using a steady rhythm to get deeper with each thrust until they were pressed skin to skin. Tom felt so full of Chris' cock that he was sure he might cry.  
  
"That's it," Chris gritted out again, slipping his hand up along Tom's spine and forcing him to arch his back further. "You should see how good you look."  
  
It didn't take them long to build up a rhythm; Chris thrusting deep and Tom meeting him as best he could, accommodating Chris' girth until it began to feel really good, until he wanted more. He began to whine each time Chris drew back, attempting to rock back hard but unable to under Chris' tight hold of his hips.

"You want it hard?" He grunted, realising that Tom was impatient with his slow tenderness and only too happy to oblige him. He stilled his hips. "Want me to fuck you hard, Tom?"  
  
"Yes," Tom gasped, rocking his hips back to make his point, and when Chris snapped his hips forward Tom he choked on his gasp of " _please_ ".  
  
Chris let out a breathy laugh. "I thought you said you were shy."  
  
He didn't wait for an answer, taking up an immediate and unyielding effort, each deep jab of his hips rocking Tom forwards and forcing a broken cry from his throat. Tom felt dizzy and desperate to come, grounded only by Chris' wild, panting groans and the bruising hold on his hips, and Tom tilted them up and up until Chris was hitting his prostate with almost every thrust.  
  
It was spectacular and overwhelming, and this time when Tom worked his hand down and around his throbbing cock Chris let him stroke himself, too frantic to meet their rhythm but fit for the intended purpose, and soon afterwards Tom was coming, muscles tensing and toes curling, his body squeezing greedy and tight around Chris while he fucked him through his orgasm.  
  
Tom felt as though he was melting into the bed once he was done, his ears buzzing and his hand slipping from his softening cock to lie limp beneath him. Chris was drawing in heavy breaths, stroking at Tom's hips and thighs, but his cock was still hard and unsatisfied inside him and Tom smiled, deliberately tilting his hips again.  
  
"Come on," he whispered, reaching back to grab weakly at Chris' thigh. "You're not done with me yet, are you?"  
  
And Chris leaned close over his back, hot skin pressing to Tom's sunburn, and fastened his mouth to Tom's neck. He fucked into Tom solidly from that angle, jack hammering into him shallow and frantic, his breath bursting hot and desperate against Tom's neck and shoulder. Winding his fingers in Tom's hair again he turned his face until their mouths met, murmuring his pleasure against Tom's lips in an imitation of a kiss.  
  
Tom whispered "Do it, _yes_ , come on," against damp lips and then Chris was coming too, clenching his teeth and pressing deep inside, holding Tom still with the weight of his body until he'd completely spent.  
  
They both groaned as he pulled out, Tom feeling empty and suddenly bereft without the weight of Chris in and around him, and then Chris was ridding himself of the condom and flopping down onto his back.  
  
"I don't want to move," he breathed, his chest rising and falling with the evidence of his exertion, and Tom lay on his front watching, wondering what was expected of him next.  
  
It seemed like a long time after that when Chris dragged himself off the bed and slipped into the bathroom, fumbling around and running the tap before remerging with a wet cloth.  
  
"Do you need to clean up?" he asked, and Tom nodded despite the evidence that most of his come was on the bed rather than himself. Chris laughed as Tom rolled onto his side and as much became obvious. "I'm not sleeping in that," he said.  
  
Tom cringed and wiped himself down, handing the cloth back to Chris who flung it back towards the bathroom before falling back onto the bed. Settling himself on his side with his head propped up he observed Tom quietly for a minute.  
  
"So," he eventually said. "Where to next?"  
  
Tom blinked. "Hmm?"  
  
"When you leave Sihanoukville, where then? Angkor Wat? Vietnam?"  
  
It was a tempting thought, continuing on his travels of South-East Asia and putting off real life for a little bit longer, but a job was waiting for him back at home, not to mention his parents and sisters. He lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. "Home."  
  
Chris slipped his hand across the space between them until he was pressing his thumb against Tom's bottom lip. "Just home?"  
  
"Just home," Tom nodded.  
  
Chris shuffled backwards as far as he could without falling from the bed and gestured for Tom to follow, asking "Is this okay?" as he arranged them comfortably on the dry side of the bed with Tom pressed tightly to his side.  
  
It was warm even without a cover over them and Tom felt himself drifting off, feeling sated and content, lulled by Chris' slowing breaths.  
  
"What's it like? Over in England," Chris eventually said, speaking quietly into the dark.  
  
Tom sleepily pondered the thought. "Depends where you go, I suppose. I'm not very well equipped to sell it, I don't think. It's probably the sort of place you have to see for yourself."  
  
Chris hummed thoughtfully, running his fingers through Tom's curls. "Maybe I will."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not all of the above will happen to you on a standard visit to Cambodia, but some of it might.
> 
> Dedicated to [rangerdanger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/townpariah/) who neither asked for it nor knew it was being written - just a token of my appreciation for her amazing writing.
> 
> Any mistakes are my own.


End file.
